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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295624">we sing in altered tone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia'>KannaOphelia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1963, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Bittersweet, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has some snake features, Cunnilingus, F/F, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Happy Ending, Ineffable Wives | Female Aziraphale/Female Crowley (Good Omens), Lots of kissing, Marriage Proposal, Mutual Pining, Quote: You go too fast for me Crowley (Good Omens), Slight Canon Divergence, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:34:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27295624</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/pseuds/KannaOphelia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale had been on Earth long enough to recognise a proposal when she heard one. The old way, no priests or officials, or rituals or exchange of property, just a contract of one heart to another, <em>live and die by each other's side. The way of Eden.</em></p><p>The difficulty lay in finding the words to reject it. It didn't matter that Aziraphale wanted it. Wanting was useless, in the face of impossibility. She reached for the door of the Bentley.</p><p>It wouldn't open.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>167</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020, Ineffable Wives fic by KannaOphelia</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>we sing in altered tone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Bentley/gifts">The_Bentley</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For Ineffable Wives Exchange 2020, my gift for The_Bentley, and very much inspired by your username! I hope you enjoy. &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1963</strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Anywhere you want to go.</em>
</p><p>Aziraphale had been on Earth long enough to recognise a proposal when she heard one. The old way, no priests or officials, or rituals or exchange of property, just a contract of one heart to another, <em>live and dieby each other's side.</em> The way of Eden.</p><p>The difficulty lay in finding the words to reject it.</p><p>She tried to see Crowley's expression. It had been difficult to read her eyes ever since the development of spectacles, and now, with the snake eyes hidden behind actual goggles, even Aziraphale's angelic eyes couldn't pick them out. Crowley's wild curls had been not only tamed but scraped back under a glossy plastic helmet, the same shining red as the plastic disks on her miniskirt, which Aziraphale suspected were actually coiled snakes. The actual serpent was wearing black go-go boots and she should have looked ridiculous, something out of an H G Wells novel, but the fashion suited her thin, flat-breasted frame, her long bony legs. The lack of hair around her face made her long, scarlet-painted mouth all the more vulnerable, the way the lower lip was pressed out almost in a pout that seemed to repress trembling, the lines deep in around them. Her <em>knees</em> were vulnerable, pointed and sharp under her black nylons. The line of her long neck was vulnerable. Her ears, with the ludicrous plastic band of the helmet--she, hadn't worn a helmet since the Restoration of the monarchy, and this thing couldn't stop a determined wasp, let alone a mace--were vulnerable. A beautiful snake, waiting for Aziraphale to bring down the stick and break her spine. And what a spine. The knobbly bones of it stood out over the line of her dress.</p><p>Aziraphale had a sudden impulse to throw the sbrutal tick away, to say: yes, take me away. We'll go--where? Beyond the reach of Heaven and Hell? Stupid. Ridiculous. There was nowhere to go, and Crowley had broken their unspoken contract by even suggesting it, just like she had when she asked for the holy water in the first place.</p><p>It didn't matter that Aziraphale wanted it. Wanting was useless, in the face of impossibility. She was so tired, so very tired, and someone had to talk sense because Crowley <em>wouldn't</em>, and all of a sudden Aziraphale was angry.</p><p>She pressed her own lips together, not in a pout but in a line as thin as Crowley's bare arms. Didn't Crowley know she wanted to say <em>yes</em> and had to say <em>no</em>? Abruptly, she didn't want to say anything at all. Crowley had pushed her too far, she kept pushing and pushing and it was unfair and Aziraphale's head hurt and she didn't want to play the game any longer. Tempt, refuse. Flirt, withdraw. Push the boundaries of their respective jobs, withdraw again. It hurt more every time.</p><p>She reached out for the door of the Bentley in silence.</p><p>The door wouldn't open. Aziraphale tugged and pushed, gently at first, wriggled it up and down with increasing vigor, then summoned angelic strength. Nothing.</p><p>Crowley laughed, soft and bitter, still staring at the Thermos on her lap. "Sorry. I don't think she wants you to leave. Come on, behave, old girl. The angel doesn't want to be here."</p><p>The Bentley's radio started up. Aziraphale closed her eyes. Her gramophone had been a gift from Crowley, with her usual surly ungraciousness, only red high on her cheeks giving her away. ("Here, don't have any room for this thing myself. Thought I could use it to spread some evil, make it play backwards and subject people to lectures by Beelzebub or something, bore them into wickedness, but the idea needs work. You like music, or you can use it as a book stand like everything else in this place.") They both loved music; concerts and operas and eisteddfods were places to meet, excuses to sit side by side. ("What a coincidence, dear girl, our seats are next to each other again!") Sometimes, after Crowley dropped into the bookshop, ("Just checking on the Arrangement"), there would be new black discs in paper covers casually abandoned on the sofa or half buried under piles of books on Aziraphale's desk.</p><p>She had first heard this particular song, miraculously preserved on grooves in shellac by those clever humans, had arrived in 1929, after they had met up at the Savoy Theatre, Aziraphale dying to introduce Crowley to the <em>Pirates of Penzance</em>. ("You've missed so much in your long nap, my dear, the most delightful nonsense, and you simply must see the new Savoy Theatre, the last word in luxury.")</p><p>She'd listened to it often, then, remembering Crowley, dark and gloomy in her slinky satin dress, teasing Aziraphale about her newly bobbed hair. Aziraphale had never grown it back. Only little quirks of her mouth and the occasional unlovely barks of laughter escaping Crowley despite herself had given away how much she really had enjoyed herself. Her hand had pressed against the small of Aziraphale's back as she tempted the angel to drinks in the bar, and the painted sky on the ceiling had been brighter and more serene than Heaven's sky ever had. Aziraphale could feel the warmth of that lean hand through her dress every time she listened to the recording. So few touches in so many centuries, and she had hoarded them jealously through the millennia.</p><p>And now, it was clear, she was being offered all the touches she could want, for all time. Just exchange the real heaven for the clouds painted on a blue and gold ceiling, a fool's paradise in a human world.</p><p>Aziraphale had to leave the car. Had to leave temptation.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Ah, leave me not to pine, alone and desolate...</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>The soprano's voice was thinner on a recording, the strange fuzzy texture winding around Aziraphale's heart, bringing tears to her eyes.</p><p>Crowley's hand snapped out to turn the radio off. The Bentley, apparently, wasn't having it.</p><p>
  <em>No fate seemed fair as mine, no happiness so great.</em>
</p><p>"Shutupshutupshutup." Crowley banged the radio. "You will do as I say, shut up and let the angel out! She doesn't want to go anywhere with us."</p><p>The tenor's voice swelled.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Ah, must I leave thee here in endless night to dream</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Where joy is dark and drear and sorrow all supreme...</em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>"Shut <em>up</em>!"</p><p>And it was too much, too much. The locked door, the music, the memories, the way a thread of auburn hair had escaped that ridiculous plastic helmet on Crowley's ridiculous head, the holy water cradled on her slim lap as if it wasn't a suicide pill. Aziraphale couldn't just leave.</p><p>Aziraphale's voice shook a little, for all she tried to keep it light. "Well, your contraption seems to have its own ideas. I suppose I could let you bring me back to the bookshop. I have the most wonderful new Scotch, all peat, and I would appreciate your opinion. You're better at appreciating smoky flavours than me."</p><p>Not much of a consolation, Aziraphale knew. An olive branch of kinds, used to jab at Crowley's nature. <em>I can't marry you, but I will share my whiskey. You can taste that of me, at least. And I'll make stupid jokes about Hellfire because I need to keep reminding myself you're a demon.</em></p><p>"Are you sure you want me to come with you?"</p><p>"I'm sure I don't want to be without you," Aziraphale said, looking at the Thermos, trapping death in double walls. She'd breathed a prayer of protection into the vacuum, hoping God would remember that Crowley was Her child, too. "You're--you know what you are to me." Aziraphale hoped she did. She sat frozen, terrified, trying to read Crowley's still posture.</p><p>Then Crowley put the Bentley into gear, and she was smiling, and it was all right, it was all right. Aziraphale felt nearly weak with relief.</p><p>They pulled up quite onto the footpath, in the most illegal way, and this time the Bentley door opened. "Won't you come in?" Aziraphale asked, still offering consolation and reassurance.</p><p>"Yeah," Crowley said. "Yeah, 'course. Course." She still didn't look at Aziraphale, and she reached behind and set the thermos carefully on the back seat. Azirphale felt a surge of relief at the thought of it being further away from Crowley, even for a few minutes. A few hours, if the Scotch went well.</p><p>It would be all right, Aziraphale told herself, fumbling for keys she didn't need when she wasn't pretending for the humans, dropping them. She felt ridiculous bending down. Skirts were so <em>short</em> and tight now, worse than after the Great War, although her neat plaid skirt was much longer and looser than Crowley's space age mini-dress. She had her back turned to Crowley and she was oddly aware that the fabric would be stretching over her plump derrière. Undignified. And an angel should be dignified in the presence of the Enemy, no matter how kind and chivalrous the Enemy could be when she wasn't in a snaky mood, how <em>precious</em>. There was a gulp of air from behind her, and she was almost sure Crowley was swallowing laughter at the sight Aziraphale made.</p><p>Irritation and relief miracled Aziraphale's keys to her hand, and the doors flew open without unlocking anyway. She flounced inside, meaning to turn, to scold, to get things back to normal.</p><p>There were hands buried in her hair as the door slammed behind them, a slender body pressed against her from behind. Lips in her hair, too. She thought confusedly that she would be getting lipstick in her hair. Crowley always wore far too much makeup. Look at her in Ancient Egypt, kohl all over her face. Why was Crowley kissing her hair? Crowley... kissing... And the lips were on her ear now, wet and pressing, a murmur of "Angel... angel... at last," in her ear.</p><p>No, this wasn't what she had meant at all by inviting Crowley in. She needed to stop it and explain Crowley had misunderstood, this was just going to be another night of drunkenness and rambling chatter from arm's length away. Lips on her neck, and... oh. How could her neck be so sensitive? It was a body part she left exposed all the time. Kisses on it shouldn't send bolts of pleasure down her, weakening her knees and making her tremble. She couldn't stand, but that was all right, an arm was coiled around her waist, fingers pressing into the curve of her stomach, not letting her fall. A tongue slid down the side of her neck, and surely it was parted at the tip, too strong and flexible to be human, tearing a breathless moan from her lips.</p><p>"Aziraphale." A long hiss, the zeds drawn out. "I've imagined you making that noise for me... So many times." She was being turned in Crowley's arms now, backed against a table stacked high with books. There was a thud as one fell, and Aziraphale felt she couldn't care at all, because now Crowley was stealing little kisses, sipping from her mouth as if her lips and tongue were the most delicious thing in the world. Aziraphale's own mouth had opened apparently of its own accord to feel Crowley's against it, impossibly hot and silken. "I thought, I hoped I <em>did</em> mean the same to as you are to me, but I wasn't sure until now. My <em>angel.</em>"</p><p>Aziraphale should say she hadn't meant that at all. Crowley was nothing to her, a rival, barely a friend. The lie stuck in her throat, as if Crowley's sweet kisses had taken it from her. All she managed was <em>Crowley</em> and then a humming noise of pleasure.</p><p>"That's right, that's right. The noises you'll make make for me... I'll make it so good for you, darling. So good. My beautiful angel." Hungry fingers--how could fingers be hungry?-- pushing up under Aziraphale's respectable skirt, massaging her thighs and hips as if trying to fill Crowley's hands with all the abundance of flesh she could find. Aziraphale was sure she had been wearing a half-slip, but it was nowhere to be found.</p><p>So tempting, so tempting. Maybe that was the key. Remind herself that no matter how passionate Crowley was, no matter how much Aziraphale <em>wanted</em>, no matter how the neglected juncture between her legs ached and her insides clenched and shivered and hot wetness slid between her legs, this was the Original Temptress herself. The wellspring of the first Sin. Aziraphale reached up and pushed those ridiculous plastic goggles up above the helmet, to look at those inhuman eyes, mark of evil, to remind herself that this was a serpent, a demon...</p><p>Crowley's irises had expanded to fill those huge eyes until they were pools of gold. Demonic, yes. Inhuman, infernal... Beautiful. So beautiful. The same eyes Aziraphale had looked into on the Wall and thought, *surely she can't be entirely evil, with eyes like that, and a gentle twisting nervous mouth like that. Some angel must remain." The same gentle mouth that was twisting now, passionate, yes, but also nervous under its coating of scarlet lipstick. Aziraphale was suddenly unable to bear the helmet, and pushed that off Crowley too. It clattered to the floor, releasing soft auburn waves.</p><p>This time it was <em>Aziraphale's</em> mouth that closed the distance, tongues sliding against each other, her own arms going up around that bony, <em>precious</em> back.</p><p>"At last," Crowley was saying against her mouth, "at last." Her hands were still occupied with Aziraphale's hips, kneading greedily into the curves, but the oversized pearl buttons on Aziraphale's satin blouse fell open without a touch. Crowley made a hiss of irritation at the respectable brassiere holding Aziraphale's breasts in restrained, separated cones, and freed a long hand from Aziraphale's hip to snap it away.</p><p>"<em>Satan</em>, Aziraphale, fuck." Crowley lifted one heavy, pendulous breast in her hands.</p><p>"Don't use language like that in my book shop," Her own voice sounded surprisingly normal. Prissy.</p><p>"Haven't seen you like this since... oh, too long. Always wanted to touch." A thumb swept over her swelled aureole, over the peaked nipple, making Aziraphale gasp, and if she had thought she was wet before, it was nothing on this. "Taste." The red lips swooped, fastened, kissed, <em>sucked</em>. It was just a little painful, and Aziraphale leaned helplessly back against the table, hearing more books falling, nothing else mattering but the harsh, steady suction on her breast. When Crowley's lips pulled away there was an audible pop, and Aziraphale sobbed. "Would dream of them. Dream of burying my face between them." Crowley followed suit, rubbing her face, more like a kitten than a snake as she babbled. "Go home and fuck my fingers, and lick myself clean imagining it was you, that you let me touch you, taste you, own you, worship you, <em>love</em> you."</p><p>The word was there, not able to be taken back. Crowley didn't even seem to realise she'd said it. She had pushed one lean thigh between Aziraphale's rounded ones, was rocking it there, and the pressure was everything Aziraphale needed and not enough, as she thrust and rubbed against it. So hard, so sinewy, Crowley's thighs, not a curve about them except of muscle, they were perfect, but the skirt of Crowley's dress was in the way and those stupid plastic discs were clattering and uncomfortable.</p><p>Aziraphale didn't even realise she'd wished the dress away before Crowley was barking a laugh in disbelieving delight, wearing nothing but nylon tights and go-go-boots. She was so pale, so slim, her breasts barely a shadow, nipples small and tight and hard, and the nylons felt so <em>good</em> where Aziraphale rocked against them. Had she been wearing kickers? Of course she had, she she didn't wear tights with their provocative cling around hips and behind, just good respectable stockings that attached to her missing girdle. They didn't seem lacking in provocation with Crowley's fingers kneading at the exposed skin above the elasticised tops.</p><p>She had no idea which of them had wished her underwear away. She didn't care. The slide against the hard thigh was not enough.</p><p>"More," Aziraphale managed. "Please, <em>beloved.</em>"</p><p>Crowley jolted as the endearment seemed to go through her like an electric shock, made a voiceless word. And why <em>shouldn't</em> Aziraphale say it? If she was caught like this, "But I didn't say I loved the demon" would not be taken as much of an excuse for being in her arms. And she <em>did</em> love Crowley. She loved her, loved the red hair that had fallen around her chin now the helmet was gone, loved the strange vulnerability of Crowley's ribs and faint breasts and knobbly shoulders, loved every line on her face, loved every hair of her eyebrows and every lash fringing those yellow eyes, loved every rasping breath.</p><p>"Want--want to taste and have it really be you," Crowley said jerkily. "Want to make you feel good, and know it's because of me."</p><p>"Yes--yes." She let herself be lifted onto the table, so <em>strong</em> despite those serpent-thin arms, sitting shamelessly with her thighs spread, because what did it <em>matter</em> now?</p><p>"Shit, angel," said Crowley. Although it wasn't Aziraphale's idea of romantic dialogue, wasn't what she had secretly imagined when inebriated and alone, somehow it was the most romantic and arousing thing Aziraphale had ever heard. "Look* at you. I can <em>smell</em> you." Her tongue flickered out, tasting the air, and yes, it was forked. "You're like this, for me. You want me." Her voice was shaking, as if she couldn't quite believe it. And Aziraphale knew, she understood, she saw the dark red hair through those ridiculous provocative tights and she was sure, she was so sure, that if she peeled them down the nylon would be damp, the dark red curls all the tighter and darker for their dampness, and the idea was maddening. Crowley, wet for her. "You fucking want me so much," Crowley said, sounding dazed. "Me."</p><p>"I <em>love</em> you," Aziraphale said, drunk on love and tenderness and need.</p><p>Crowley fell to her knees and pressed her face against Aziraphale's thigh. There was no human language for the words she choked out, hissed, wailed, a voiceless inhuman thread of need and shock. "Yes, me too," Aziraphale said, laughing a little through her need.</p><p>"Fuck, Aziraphale, that wasn't exactly how I planned to respond if you ever said that." Crowley was laughing a little too, but her face was burning against the small gap of skin at the top of Aziraphale's stocking .</p><p>"What did you plan to say?" Aziraphale asked. She knew, of course she knew, but she wanted to hear it.</p><p>"I love you too. I love you. I <em>adore</em> you. I'm yours. Always, always yours. I know you can't be mine, not the same way I'm yours, you're still <em>theirs</em>, but Aziraphale, Aziraphale, if you love me, it's enough, it's everything." And then, because Crowley was not a human woman but an ancient serpentine creature stuffed into the shape of one, she apparently gave up on words and bit Aziraphale instead.</p><p>The pain was electrifying. There was a moment of <em>it wil lgo too deep, I'll bleed, I'll discorporate</em> followed by <em>no. I am safe with Crowley.</em> A fluttering pride that Crowley <em>could</em> wound and kill, but would not, because she held Azirphale precious. The feeling of the flesh of her thigh sucked and licked between those sharp teeth, possessively. If Aziraphale looked down, she wondered if she would see Crowley's jaw unhinged, the serpent showing, the demon exposed and <em>hers</em>, all for her.</p><p>Then Crowley was kissing where she had bitten, soothing and gentle, that velvet tongue caressing sore skin. Kissing adoringly and wetly up, flickering in the crook of the top of Azirphale's thighs where she was damp with perspiration.</p><p>"Can I?" Crowley's voice was hoarse, the words indistinct.</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>Strong hands pulled Aziraphale's leg up, hoked the knee over Crowley's thin bare shoulder, and then that mouth was on her. Tentative at first, tickling, frustrating as it outlined her cleft, her inner folds, danced across her clit. The Crowley made a strangled noise, lifted her hands to Aziraphale's bottom and pressed her forward, pressed her face in as if she wanted to smother herself. And it was too much, almost unbearable, sensation blooming and squirming and shattering its way down Aziraphale's legs, so that she didn't know whether to push Crowley away <em>too much</em> or pull her even closer. All she could do was clutch the desk and brace herself as that tongue licked and parted and burrowed into her and she was coming already, falling apart, sharp and hard.</p><p>And Crowley didn't relent. She kissed and licked over-sensitive skin, flickered in to taste, moaned against Aziraphale's folds in ways that spent new shocks through her. When she pulled slightly away it was just to fasten her mouth on Aziraphale's clit and suck in long, hard motions, tongue held stiff now and flicking in rhythmic, strong pulses, as a long finger worked inside Aziraphale. No, two fingers, because they were scissoring and parting and flexing as well as fucking her, stretching her, touching every part of the walls inside her, until at last they hooked at the sensitive spot right against where Crowley's mouth was sucking her from outside.</p><p>The combined stimulation was too much again, orgasm racketing through her, and still Crowley didn't stop, still she drew every pulse and spam from her with hungry lips and tongue and almost brutal fingers.</p><p><em>Hers</em>, Aziraphale thought indistinctly, with what remained of her that was not all lightning jolts of pleasure and need, *I'm helpless and hers, my sweet, my darling..." She made a sound she didn't know she was capable of, something like an angelic roar, her free leg stretching out pointed, and this final orgasm left her trembling and weak.</p><p>Crowley seemed to sense it was too much. She awkwardly pulled away, freeing herself from under Aziraphale's leg, and surged up, arms tightly around the angel's, cheek pressed to hers. "My sweetheart, my sweetheart," Crowley whispered, cradling her close, and Aziraphale felt herself, her soul, gathered back into her arms. Safe and secure with her.</p><p>Aziraphale was still throbbing and spasming between her legs, as if a second heart had been caught there. She was dimly aware that she must be a mess with arousal and saliva and wished she could stay a mess forever, show the signs of how much she had been wanted. How much <em>she</em> wanted.</p><p>"Can i?" she asked timidly when her thoughts had returned. She wanted to make Crowley happy like that.</p><p>Crowley pulled back. just a little, enough to kiss her with lips that were wet and slightly salty and <em>oh</em>, that was <em>her</em>, wasn't it? "Need to be up where I can kiss you," she said gruffly. "Like this." She shifted, snake-lithe, and her tights were gone, and she was rocking against Aziraphale's thigh, kissing her over and over.</p><p>Aziraphale spared a thought for how they must look, her own breasts spilling over her brassiere, Crowley only in those ridiculous go-go boots, but all she really had attention for were the kisses, the possessive tongue deep in her mouth, the hot wet slide of Crowley against her thigh, the way Crowley gasped and sobbed into her mouth and then rubbed furiously, her whole form jerking in climax.</p><p>They clung together afterwards. Aziraphale cradled Crowley and stoked her hair and angular hips and tried not to think.</p><p>Crowley read her mind anyway.</p><p>"We can't do this again, can we?"</p><p>"No. And I can't remember." It was bitter, especially with the muffled howl against her shoulder in response. "I can't expose myself to temptation like this."</p><p>"If thy right eye offend thee... Oh, angel. Don't cast me off. Please."</p><p>"i won't, But I can't do <em>this.</em> Maybe someday. We could go slowly. Find a way..."</p><p>Crowley's shoulders were sagged in defeat. "I knew, really. But not yet. Hold me just a little while, and then we'll forget together."</p><p>"Yes. I do love you, dearest."</p><p>"I love you too. Oh, fuck." Her arms wound even tighter. "Tell me a story."</p><p>"Maybe one day we'll go for a picnic," said Aziraphale, ignoring the tears on her shoulder. "On the South Downs... the Serpent's Trail. I know that was named for you. Take a basket with champagne and strawberries and cream. And afterwards, we'll go home. To our own cottage. With pink white-washed walls."</p><p>"I hate pink."</p><p>"I'll let you decorate the kitchen. All shining black."</p><p>"Very kind of you." Crowley kissed her cheek, and snuggled closer. "Still hate pink."</p><p>"Oh, all right. A flint cottage, with red brick corners."</p><p>"The rest of the cottage will be all bookshelves, I suppose."</p><p>"Naturally. But you can have a greenhouse, if you promise not to shout too much while I'm all around."</p><p>"I suppose you want me to win prizes at the Women's Institute for my marrows."</p><p>"Lotuses. Do you remember Egypt? You always looked so lovely with lotuses in your hair. And we'll have a well-stocked cellar. A white door with vines over it. Very well-behaved vines, if I know you..."</p><p>Crowley was crying, but it was best not to mention it. Not very demonic, crying. Or angelic, to sniffle over a demon.</p><p>Well. It would all be forgotten, soon. And what was forgotten couldn't hurt.</p>
<hr/><p>
  <strong>2019</strong>
</p><p>Aziraphale's fingers tangled lightly with Crowley's as they walked down the chalk road together. New, these little touches. In public. They were working up towards... <em>something</em>, now they could be open about their friendship. Aziraphale had kissed Crowley on the cheek saying goodnight two weeks ago, and Crowley's eyebrows had flown up above her sunglasses and she had half tripped on the doorstep leaving.</p><p><em>I love her</em>, Aziraphale thought now, and there was no guilt, no fear. They would get there. Maybe one evening soon, Crowley would be the one to lean in for a kiss, not for her cheek but for her lips.</p><p>She wondered why they had left the Bentley up the road. An estate sale, Crowley had said. ("No reason to make them think we're filthy rich and hike up the prices of the books.") She hadn't seemed very convincing. Devious, Aziraphale's old serpent, as always.</p><p>They turned the corner and there it was, peeping through the trees. A cottage, with speckled flint walls, edged in red brick. Rich ivy vines over the door. The white door. The sign outside proclaimed the house was sold, subject to contract.</p><p>"Plenty of space for bookshelves," Crowley was rambling nervously. "The kitchen is terrible, I'd need to tear it all out and replace it in..."</p><p>"Black."</p><p>"Yeah. Does that mean---"</p><p>The memories were flooding back, and Aziraphale felt faint. She groped for Crowley's shoulder, and felt supportive arms around her. "I remember. Oh, I remember, my <em>darling</em>."</p><p>"Came back to me when I saw the house. Didn't think you'd... Oh, Aziraphale. Come and live with me."</p><p>Aziraphale had been on Earth long enough to recognise a proposal when she heard one.</p><p>"<em>Yes,</em>" she said, and lost the rest in kisses.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Story-wise, the Bentley is probably playing the 1929 D'Oyly Carte recording of <em>Ah, leave me not to pine!</em> with Elsie Griffiths as Mabel, but I couldn't find any trace of it online. So here is a link to <a href="https://open.spotify.com/track/7wMEQVXN1zIYOX5QxOgawG">the 1958 D'Oyly Carte recording</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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